


A Sad Guitar

by Spirishcat



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Cute, Drabbles, Emotional, F/M, Fluffy, Gen, One-Shots, Post-Canon, Post-Movie, Sentimental
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-13
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2019-06-09 19:59:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15275103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spirishcat/pseuds/Spirishcat
Summary: A serious of one-shots/drabbles centred around Imelda and Héctor after the events of the movie.  Some will be very short and some will be very long, most will be fluffy.





	1. El Despertamiento

It had been difficult to focus on much of anything in those last moments. It was strange that even though he didn't have lungs, he hadn't had them for decades, he had suddenly felt like he couldn't breathe, like every breath was a struggle. Just like _en la calle,_ when he had felt that _**pain**_ , and Ernesto's voice in his ear telling him he had eaten bad chorizo, it was that same pain, that same struggle, feeling you were losing a battle. Dying all over again. But what made it _**more**_ painful was knowing he was dying because Coco was forgetting him, that she would be lost to him forever and he lost to her. He never got to go home, never got to see her again, never got to apologise for leaving. But Miguel had gotten to go home. They had saved him. He had felt Imelda's hands wrap around his, both giving their blessing together and then....nothing. 

The Final Death.

Except...the Final Death felt very much like a soft bed. No one knew where you went after your Final Death, there was no one to ask after all, but the word Final did give the idea of, well, _la finalidad._ Did finality feel like a bed? Did finality feel anything at all? His breathing wasn't hurting anymore. And his limbs didn't feel quite as light and weak, like they were made of dust. His eyes were closed. He still had eyes. He had seen too many people face their final death, turning to shimmering ash, looking like marigolds in the wind....and shimmering ash marigolds didn't have eyes. Did they? But if he opened his eyes he would know for certain, but what if this was all in his head and when he opened his eyes he would be in somewhere even more forgotten than the Shanty Town? A Land of Forgotten? Dusty relics waiting to crumble? He didn't want that, not when he had finally learned the truth, not when his _familia_ had **_finally_** learned the truth, not when Imelda was **_finally._**..when she had leaped into his arms, he hadn't expected it...but then he hadn't expected her to fight for his photo, or hit Ernesto, or sing, or sing  _that_ line to him. The memory of it all made his heart flutter. Even though he didn't have one anymore. Technically. So why was it thumping his chest right now? Phantom pains against a rib cage that should be dust?

He really needed to open his eyes and stop being a complete _cobarde._ What could happen? Closing his eyes wasn't going to change his fate. 

Héctor shifted a little where he lay, preparing himself, but when he moved he realised something was pressing on top of him. Not a heavy weight, but something keeping him where he was. _Ay, dios_ , he  ** _was_** trapped after all. He was being kept in some coffin, until he faded away completely, he was going to have to stay here until he was gone completely. A slow Final Death. No, no, no, no. He opened his eyes now, determined to fight, determined to--

He frowned as he opened his eyes, looking around in utter confusion at a ceiling, at a wardrobe, at a mirror, at a.... ** _bedroom_**? With a wide-eyed expression, his gaze darted this way and that, trying to take in everything, and eventually looked down to what was keeping him trapped where he was. It was better than any place he'd slept in a long time since he had died. It was cozy and somehow...familiar. Though he couldn't pinpoint why...

"Ah!" He gasped as his eyes found the weight he had felt on him, and then threw his free hand over his mouth to quieten himself, but thankfully Imelda didn't wake up. He always wondered  ** _why_ ** they all still slept in the Land of the Dead. Habit or was being dead just as exhausting as being alive? He'd gone days without sleep himself, but he always felt exhausted eventually. But now, he was very glad they did sleep, so he could take everything in without Imelda realising he was doing it. She was very nicely oblivious. And lay next to him. She was holding one of his hands in hers. She was close. Very close. She was resting on the pillow, her hair a little mussed but still braided, her eyes closed, and she was still dressed. Héctor realised she had fallen asleep beside him after last night. They had brought him here and she had stayed with him and she had lay beside him and now had her hand in his and her other hand...well that was the weight he had felt. It could almost be called snuggling...if he'd been aware she was there in the first place. Héctor looked down at their entwined hands and once again felt that phantom heart beating in his rib cage. 

His rib cage that was very much there. Not dust. And this room....it was...Imelda's? So that meant....he frowned, thinking it all through, trying to figure out the conclusion. He had been dying on that platform last night, he had felt himself being forgotten, but now...now...he didn't feel forgotten...well a bit forgotten, but not...no, in fact he felt less forgotten than he had in weeks. Coco. And Miguel. But how? But it must be...no wait, if Miguel had...wait....if Coco remembered some stories, if Miguel asked about him, then the stories would be passed down...but that meant....wait, wait...they had sent Miguel back at sunrise, and today....how late on was it...but it didn't matter; for him not to have been forgotten, Miguel must have gone _ **straight** _ to Coco, immediately. "He did it...." Héctor murmured, "He did it" He repeated, louder this time, a smile spreading on his face, "Yes, my boy!" That was even louder. Loud enough to cause Imelda to stir a little. Héctor gasped, tensing as he saw her stir, turning a little though her hand didn't let go of his as her eyes blinked open. 

Used to being turned away so many times, to seeing her angrily send him in the opposite direction, telling him not to talk to her, not to touch her, instinct kicked in and panicking, Héctor suddenly pulled himself back....and fell off the bed, leaving his hand behind, which Imelda still had in her own. 

" _¡Ay, Héctor!_ " Imelda gasped in surprise, sitting up suddenly to find not only that Héctor as awake, but part of him was not attached and the rest of him was on the floor. She moved forward to the edge of the bed to see if he was okay. He had been so faint on that stage, like a man at the door of his Final Death, even as they had brought him here...brought him to die at home, surrounded by his _familia,_ they had thought. 

" _Lo siento_ , it does that sometimes..." He apologised, laughing nervously, clambering to his feet as he cautiously took his hand back and popped it into place once more. "See? There we go!"

"Héctor you're awake," Imelda's eyes were wide as she looked at him, but he averted his gaze shyly, turning away...which was why he was not prepared when his _esposa_ threw herself at him. He almost crumbled and lost his balance when he felt her arms wrapped around his neck, but still he hesitated, waiting for her to remember herself as she had last night and let go again, embarrassed. But she didn't. If anything she was holding him even more tightly. Tentatively, Héctor wrapped his arms around her and nothing, **_nothing_ ,** had felt this nice in a very long time.

"You were so close to the Final Death, Héctor, we were certain you were going to be forgotten " Imelda's voice was muffled by his tattered jacket which she had currently buried her face in. 

"With Miguel around? Not a chance" Héctor affected a light, casual attitude, as if it was nothing, trying to hide the fact he had been resigned to the Final Death, had expected nothing else. "Our boy is too brilliant. I knew he would do something to help me"

Imelda pulled away a little and looked up at him with a raised eyebrow bone, challenging him and he tried not to notice there were marks of tears on her cheekbones. Tears for him? 

"That...that was a lie. And I apologise for doing that" He gave her a toothy grin. 

Imelda had forgotten that habit of his. ** _I have this evening all planned, Imelda. No, that was a lie, I apologise. Let's just go dancing. No smell Coco has ever made could ever_ _hazme mordaza, mi amor._ _Okay, that was a lie. She smells terrible._** And always followed by the same smile. That _sonrisa tonta_ that she had loved. Still loved. Had always loved. She just hadn't allowed herself to remember that for so long, because it had been too dangerous to remember, too painful. She had to forget him, forget all of it, to survive him walking out on her. Only he hadn't, had he? He had been walking  _ **home**_ when De La Cruz had murdered him. 

 "You look better, Héctor," Not well, but he looked better than he did.

"I feel better" He admitted, and then gulped when Imelda took his hand again. "Much better" He added, looking at the hands. Too busy looking at the hands that he did not see the kiss coming before it happened. Light and brief it was more than he had had from Imelda in nearly a hundred years. He stared and stared at her when it was over, before his blank, shocked expression fell into a cautious smile. " _Bonita...."_

"What?" 

"Ah-I...erm, _bonita_ , you, are. I--" Héctor scratched the back of his head apprehensively, feeling embarrassed, which was better than feeling like he was fading, but still had the need for a black hole to swallow him. 

Imelda watched as he struggled, clearly embarrassed or nervous, and knew it was because of her. All the times she had turned him away, all the times she had refused to let him near her, to even listen to what he had to say, because she thought she knew everything already and that **_nothing_** he had to say would make amends for what he had done. What she had thought he had done. She had wanted to forget him, but...even then she had not wanted him to be forgotten. She had wanted him away, not gone. A feeling of guilt and remorse ran through her, but Héctor was only just back on his feet, and _barely_...to have  _that_ conversation, to talk about all that had happened, all they had both done wrong (for no matter what, Imelda was still of the opinion that if he hadn't left in the first place, if he hadn't gone on that tour then Ernesto could never have killed him. They could have lived their lives together, Coco might even have had a little _hermano o hermana._..), to talk about that now would be too much. It could wait. Her remorse could wait, just as he had waited for so long to be accepted by his _familia._

But she knew enough time had been wasted, time wasted and ruined by lies and deception and not listening. No more. This time they had been granted was a second chance and Imelda was not going to waste it. She never let anything got to waste in the _zapataría,_ and she would not waste anything here either. 

"Héctor, I want you to do something"

"What?" He asked, eyes filled with panic, waiting for instruction. Imelda shifted on the bed and patted the space beside her. 

"Sit down" He did so and looked at her, waiting for what else she had to say, "Lie down" Surprisingly, or not, he did that as well, still looking worried. Imelda moved to lie down beside him, holding his hand. "Now rest"

It took him a long while to relax, but eventually Imelda saw the tension leave his bones and he loosened a little, even turning to look at her, as he used to when they would lie together when they were alive. Sometimes the greatest intimacy came from just being close, nothing else, just closeness...and she had missed it. She had it with no one else in all of her life and her death, not like this...there was only ever Héctor.  "I have missed you, Héctor," She told him quietly, and though his eyes widened with shock again, this time his expression quickly settled into a smile. 

"I knew it," A pause, "That was also a lie. And I apologise" 

Imelda's own smile matched his own. 

 

 


	2. El Amor de tu Vida

It had only been a few days since Día de Los Muertos, but already there had been a marked improvement in Héctor's condition. Imelda watched him constantly out of the corner of her eye, trying to glimpse if there was ever that flash of golden light again, but there was nothing. There were no spasms and he even walked a little faster now, awkwardly still, but faster. After the morning he had woken up, she had tried to keep her distance again-- not too much, she did not want him to think that he was going to be turned away..but she didn't want to...no, it was not about want, it was about not knowing. She had been alone for so many years, there had been no one since Héctor left on that tour with Ernesto, and that had been almost a century ago. It was a long time to be on your own, and when she thought on it too much, she found herself feeling awkward, not knowing what was too much or too little. 

Besides, she was much older now. It had been 108 years since she had been born and she had been nearly 72 when she had died. She wasn't that young girl anymore in any way shape or form...so when she looked at Héctor and felt as if she was, it was difficult. How could she behave like a young girl when she had her granddaughter here, her son-in-law...her whole family who looked up to her as the _matriarca,_ the adult. 

Héctor, for his part, seemed to feel awkward too. She knew him too well, even after all these years apart, not to recognise it. The way he walked, cradling one arm with his hand, trying to take up as little space as possible, which was virtually impossible as he was the same mass of long limbs as he had been when he was alive. _**You like him?**_ her friend María had asked in disbelief, when they had both been almost 18 and she had agreed to a dance with Héctor when she had refused everyone else. María, like many of the other girls she had known, liked the tall, broad men who looked like they could take on a _toro_ single handed and play them a love song when the work was done. Héctor looked like the weight of a _guitarra_ would crush him...but that hadn't mattered to Imelda. He had spoken honestly, openly, nervously _sí,_ even stuttering over his words, but he had not hidden anything, and then he had smiled. An open honest smile and Imelda had found herself smiling back and saying yes. The way he almost tripped over himself in surprise had been enough to make her feel that saying _sí_ had been worth it. 

And then he had played her music, written little songs, short quick songs, longer ones, sentimental ones...and never _en la calle_. He did not _ **perform**_ when he played for her, it was never a performance for others to see, but always quiet, intimate, _en la casa,_ and she was his only audience. And the twins sometimes also when they were sneak into the room and sit and watch and giggle if they saw she and Héctor kiss. 

She had missed the sound of Héctor play his music and the other night, when she had heard his _guitarra_ , that quiet playing, nothing like the loudness of the _orquestra,_ she had realised just how much she missed it. When he would play and she would sing and nothing else mattered. The whole world could fall away in those moments. 

"Have you kept playing?" She asked, as she re-taped one of his broken bones. He was remembered now, but he had been forgotten for so long and his bones...they were in a terrible shape. Yellowing and mottled, there were breaks and fractures everywhere. _Quizás_ they would heal in time if he became more remembered, if Miguel and Coco shared his story with more and more people, but until then....the best they could do was keep things in place. 

"Playing? You mean the guitar?" He asked, his brown eyes pulling away from watching him work on his femur. It was still a point of amazement for him that she was touching him at all. The memory of the amount of times she had turned him away, shouting at him, running away from him, even hitting him, and here she was, on the floor, tenderly fixing one of his bones. He wanted to reach out and touch her, to touch her face, those markings that were so _bonita_ and so strong, just like Imelda herself, and he wanted to touch her hair, that streak in her hair that he loved because it meant she got to live her life, even if he didn't; she got to grow old. 

_"Sí,_ " Imelda nodded.

Héctor scoffed and shook his head, "Play with all those self-important jerks performing like monkeys? Argh!" He shuddered at the mere thought, "No, _gracias._ Besides," He hesitated, "When there's no one you care about around to listen, there's no point in playing. I only ever wanted to play for my family, Imelda" He hung his head, avoiding her gaze, feeling the guilt again that he had ever left. Why did he let Ernesto convince him? _**Just do one tour, Héctor, we'll make our fortune and you can return home to your wife and child and provide for them for life. This music is for the world to hear and it's going to set your family for life, mi amigo!**_ Héctor had trusted that argument, promised Imelda he would write every _semana,_ telling them everything, that it would be no more than a few months, six at the most....he should never have listened. He should have listened to Imelda when she said they could make money another way, that there were other options than music to make a living, better options. "I'm sorry I left, Imelda"

Imelda stopped her work on the leg bone and looked up at him, with his head practically lost in his shoulder blades it was hung so low, and she couldn't even see his eyes because his hair was falling so far forward and covering his face. She sighed and reached out with her hand, cupping his cheek bone softly. When she had first arrived in the Land of the Dead, she had thought everyone would feel hard and cold, but it was never true...any time she held her family, touched them, they were as warm as they were in life. It was the same now with Héctor. "I know, Héctor..."

He lifted his gaze a little, though it was as sad as a little _perrito._ "I will not lie and say I am not upset that you left, that I don't wish you had done differently, Héctor....but we have all made mistakes, all of us. _**My** _ mistake was never letting you explain....I was hurting too much, but if I had let you speak, if I had _ **known**_ how young you were when...that you tried to come home so soon after you left...then we would not have lost all these years"

"Imelda, that's not--"

" _ **And,**_ " She continued, not letting him interrupt her, "Miguel was right. Even if I could not forgive you, I should not have forgotten you. No matter what happened, my family was still _**your** _ family, and they should have known who you were"

"You thought I was one of those self-important jerks who walked out on his family. I wouldn't want that guy being talked about either," Héctor told her, dismissing her concerns with a grin. How could he still be like that after all he had gone through? Why, after decades of pain and of being forgotten, being alone, could he still smile like that?

"I meant what I said," 

"And I mean it too, Imelda. I understand, what you did, it was--"

"No, not that," Imelda waved her hand in a no motion, "I meant what I said on Día de Muertos. You _**are**_ the love of my life, Héctor"

Héctor's face seemed to literally light up, the colours on his skull suddenly much, much bright and his smile was as crooked and wide as ever, gold tooth glinting. 

"I am the love of your life?" He asked, waiting eagerly for confirmation.

"And of my death," She added, giving him a small smile of her own which fell into a laugh when Héctor, so much like the young man she remembered in life, suddenly leapt from his seat, shouting out a _grito_ that she was positive the rest of their _familia_ would have heard in the other rooms.

" _Ay_ , Héctor! You are supposed to be resting, and being careful on that leg!" She protested, trying to get him to sit down again, but instead he grabbed her by the arms and swung her around effortlessly in one full circle. 

"Love of your life!" He repeated, before setting her back down again, steadying her when she almost stumbled and keeping his hands on her arms after he did so. She remembered he had done the same when he had proposed and she had said yes, and he had spun her around then, and just kept holding her all night, telling everyone who would listen that she was going to be his _esposa_. She liked being in this place again, moments like this when neither of them thought of the decades they had spent apart, the lies and the pain that had been between them...when they thought about it too much, Imelda would feel that distance again, the awkwardness, but when they let themselves just... _ **be**_ , it felt as natural as it always had, as if no time had passed at all. 

"In some ways you are exactly as you've always been, Héctor"

"I could say the same, _mi amor.._." He replied, a quiet shyness returning a little to him, but he hadn't let go of her yet and she hadn't told him to let go either. She used this unexpected closeness to study him, the bright colours of pinks and greens and golds lining his forehead, his cheekbones, his chin...

"When do you get this? _**How**_ did you get this?" Imelda asked, lightly tapping his gold tooth and she felt him immediately tense, before his expression became one of embarrassment, wincing at her as he spoke. 

"You know when I talked about those self-important jerks......"

"Héctor!"

"They were asking to be told!" 

"Héctor..."

"They were, I swear!" 

 

 

 


	3. Zapatos y Baile

It had been difficult and awkward at first, after he had woken up, finding out he wasn't going to  _ **die**_ after all, and then not knowing what that meant. So Coco had remembered him, but how long would that last? He was still on his last thread and with no  _foto_ to put up he wasn't going to get to cross the bridge and once Coco left the living world....but, she could have remembered enough to share with Miguel, passing on his story, so  _ **Miguel**_ could remember him, so he would get to be around even longer, but that brought different questions. Where did he go? Where did he belong? Imelda had said she couldn't forgive him, which he had been ready to accept, but then she had sang to him, okay so the whole song was to keep the guards away, but she had sang it to _**him**_ , that line, and you didn't look at someone and sing that you wouldn't stop loving someone if you didn't mean it, right? And then she had jumped into his arms the way she used to and she hadn't shoved him away when he'd put his hands on her arms. And  _ **then**_ he had woken up to find himself in her bed with her right next to him. 

But all those things, that just meant progress; he'd had enough disappointments in the afterlife to know you could never be certain of anything. So even if he was being remembered, even if Imelda was forgiving him, that didn't mean he automatically had a place here. You didn't just get to slot back into a family you walked out on-- yes, he had tried to walk back, but he had left in the first place. Stupid ideas in his head about making a better life. Why did money mean a better life? He could have gotten a decent wage with regular work; he didn't have to make a living from music, it wasn't the only way. _Dios mío_ , Imelda had created a whole business on her own! And it was still going! He could have done that...well maybe not  _ **that**_ exactly, but he definitely could have helped. If he'd stayed. So, he didn't blame her for being angry, he didn't blame her for not being able to forgive that, and he wouldn't blame any of them for wanting him to keep his distance.

But then she'd said it. Again. Properly this time. And not by accident. He was the love of her life. Love. Life. And death, she'd also said death. So that meant he was still the love of her life, and people who were the love of your life didn't walk out and go away. They stuck around. They did everything they could to make things better.

And that was exactly what Héctor was determined to do. He had straightened his hair, well tried to make it neater with a few pats, put his hat back on, straightened his jacket, and his trousers and marched with purpose to that shop to ask Imelda to show him how to help. He didn't think he'd be very good with making shoes but he could do the other things, smaller things. He would do anything to show he could be a part of their lives-- afterlives-- and that he wasn't just going to come in and make everything different. That he could do what Imelda had wanted him to do 97 years ago; put down roots, roll up his sleeves and get to work.

Except when he walked into the workshop all the words died in his mouth as he just stopped at the sight of Imelda lost in deep concentration with her work. She was focused on....something Héctor didn't know the name of, working on a shoe that looked like a man's shoe (Imelda would probably know the exact name of the type of shoe. He should learn those things too, he decided), and she didn't even hear him come in. 

She was so _bonita,_ just as she had been in life. First time he ever saw her he had nearly walked into a wall, she had been so _hermosa_ it had knocked all sense out of his head. She made him _un poco loco.._.always had. She looked different now, white streaks through the hair, of course, but a skeleton was generally a lot different from a living face, but Héctor still thought she was beautiful. He studied her face from afar now; those big, brown eyes bright with focus, the little purple patterns that framed them, and the little dots like freckles underneath... and that little silver swirl on her forehead, the gold laurel leaves on her cheek bones. It was all so delicate and precise and so bold and bright as well and so Imelda.....Héctor sighed like a lovesick boy.

Imelda looked up from her work.

"Héctor, I didn't hear you" She exclaimed in surprise, pulling the shoe she had been working on off the desk, brushing it a little with her hand to make it clean.

"I was quiet," He told her with a shrug, and then quickly added, "I wasn't trying to be quiet. I wasn't sneaking up on you, _mi amor, lo prometo!_ "

Imelda could not help smiling a little when he called her 'mi amor'. He used to call her that all the time, he had even called her that when he had first seen her here in the Land of the Dead, when he had presumed all was well between them, clueless to the lies that had reached her in the living world. 

"You...you're smiling," Héctor pointed out, hesitantly gesturing with one finger. 

" _Quizás_ I want to smile," She reasoned. 

"So you're.....not upset that I was watching you?" He asked with a wince and Imelda sighed heavily.

"Héctor, this has to stop"

Héctor felt his heart sink, but resigned himself to it quickly, for his sake as much as hers, as he nodded in sad admittance. " _Sí, yo comprendo_. You need space, to have your own time...I know it's been so long, Imelda, and things this important, that matter this much, I know they take time. I can wait" He'd waited this long, what was a little more?

Imelda watched him wide-eyed, and he wished it didn't make her even prettier because that just made it harder, but when she didn't say anything and continued to stare, he felt he had no choice but to interrupt.

"Ey--Imelda? You're--uh--you're staring, Imelda"

" _Sí._ I am staring at an _idiota_ ," She told him firmly, arms crossing over her rib cage as she fixed him squarely with a look that made him want to take off his hat and hide behind it. "What do you think I meant has to stop?"

Héctor hesitated to answer, sensing it was going to be the wrong one. "Me following you around? Me interrupting your work? Me making bad jokes?"

"Héctor...." Imelda unfolded her arms and held out her hands to him, gesturing for him to come over. He did so, slowly, cautiously, bare feet clacking on the floor at that awkward pace from that strange limp he had which she had  **yet** to ask him about.  "What I want to stop is you thinking you don't belong. _Sí,_ big things take time, but we have had enough time. There was been nearly a **century** of a lie keeping us apart, a lie that had me keep you away; I am  **not** spending time slowly bringing you back now we know the truth. Enough time has been wasted, Héctor" She took his hands in her own and held them gently, "We are not wasting time now. Yes, you are following me around, yes you are interrupting me, yes you make very bad jokes, but all those things you can do because you are _mi esposo y mi amor_ , Héctor; it's what you did when we were **alive** , so why not when we are dead?" She looked at him very seriously now, "I don't want to take time. _Sí_ , it will take time to get to know one another again, but we can do it as _marido y marida,_   not as strangers or as just amigos, but _marido y marida_ " She repeated. She knew that she loved him, she had loved him even when she hated him which is what had made the pain so much worse, and she had lived long enough to know that taking time was for things that were uncertain, and she was  **not** uncertain about Héctor. 

The hopeful and pleased look of happy surprise on his face made Héctor look how she imagined Miguel's Dante would have looked as a puppy. 

"So, you don't mind if I sit and watch you work?"

"As long as you **don't** get in my way"

"Ah," Héctor dismissed the thought with a wave of a hand, "I don't get in anyone's way" 

Imelda pinned with a challenging expression. 

"Most of the time, anyway," He amended.

"I am sure Senor Delores would agree" 

"What? That bum? He shouldn't have been so close to my guitar, and the black eye made him look _interesante_ " And that wasn't really his fault, Héctor thought. He had been a gangly teenager, all limbs and awkwardness; he didn't know when he'd ducked down that the guitar on his back would make contact with the man's face. He came out of the memory and looked at Imelda who was watching him and gave a little involuntary, happy sigh, and there was relief in it too. Maybe, if Imelda was this willing to skip the early stages, there was less he would have to do to make things right than he thought. Maybe all he needed to do was be around. That was still going to take some getting used to, he knew, but still...getting used to a home again, getting used to a family again, a wife, it was much better than getting used to the shanty town. Héctor gave Imelda's hands a squeeze as she was still holding onto him, and though she returned the gesture, her hands soon slipped away again, reaching for the shoes she had been working on.

"It has been a while since I made shoes without measuring the feet," She explained, "But I have done this job **long** enough to sight measure with accuracy, so I expect they will fit perfectly" Imelda spoke confidently, but then hesitance trickled into her voice, "The style....well it is a little of my own as well as what I remembered, so I hope they're right"

Héctor nodded, listening, trying his hardest to find shoes interesting. "Who are they for?"

Imelda looked at him in disbelief and he suspected she was thinking him an _idiota_ again, though he didn't know why. 

"They're for **you,** Héctor," She explained as though it was obvious, "No member of this _familia_ is without a pair of Rivera shoes, and they  do **not** walk around barefoot. These are **your** shoes, _mi amor"_ Imelda didn't add that she had insisted that she be the one to make them, that she did not just want Héctor wearing Rivera shoes but she wanted him to wear  _ **her**_ Rivera shoes, ones she had made with her own hands. "I know the shoes you used to wear, but I wasn't sure if you liked something _diferente ahora_ \--" 

Imelda was cut off in her words by a kiss to her lips. Unexpected but not unwanted, it was the first time since they had been reunited that Héctor had dared anything so bold and she took it as a very good sign. Her hands rested naturally on his arms, just as they always had in life, and the fact they were both now nothing but bones  and memories made no difference to the sensation. 

"You like them?" She asked, a little breathless when the kiss was over.

"Like them?" Now it was Héctor's turn to look at Imelda as if she were an _idiota,_ "They are _perfecto, mi amor_ "

"I wanted to present them nicely, as a _regalo-_ -"

"They are _perfecto_ ," He insisted, thinking of the expression he had seen on her skull when he had walked in, the dedication and focus and determination in making these shoes, shoes for him. She had put her heart and soul into them, all for him; he couldn't think of a better way to present any gift. 

When Julio entered the workshop a short while later, looking for the earring his sister had said she had lost, he had stopped in the doorway, watching as he saw Héctor dancing around, loudly clattering in a pair of shoes he immediately recognised as Imelda's handiwork. Imelda, was trying to continue working, but her estranged _esposo_ was dancing still. "This is **exactly** what I call getting in my way, Héctor," She protested, but Héctor took his own head from his shoulders, and held it out directly in front of her at her workstation. Julio winced, waiting for the inevitable scolding they  _ **all**_ had when they crossed a line, but to his surprise, Imelda let out a reluctant laugh. 

" _Ven a bailar,_ Imelda" 

"Dance to what?" 

"The music in our heads," Héctor answered, already taking Imelda's hand in his.

"Héctor, I don't have music in my head to dance to"

"You don't?" He frowned in consideration, before brightening, "Then you can dance to mine!" 

Julio continued to watch as Mamá Imelda was pulled away from her work into a dance just like the one he used to dance with Coco when she would sneak away from her Mamá to meet him. He decided Rosita could wait for her lost earring, and he was certain when he explained why that his _hermana_ would agree. 


	4. Abuelos

Sometimes Imelda still found herself worrying if she could not find Héctor; when she went in search of him she wanted to see him immediately, to quell that feeling in her gut that told her he was gone again, that he was never there in the first place. She had spent nearly a century thinking he had left them deliberately and now had learned he had been taken from them, but neither thoughts gave her reassurance when he was nowhere to be found.

Imelda eventually found him in the _ofrenda_ room. It was not like the _ofrenda_ room in the living world, a room dedicated to ancestors, family they missed and wished to honour and give _regalos_ and _comida_ and _bebida_ to enjoy in the land of the dead…this was a room filled with the offerings given by their _familia_ over the decades. Things did not grow here but nor did they rot, and so food from a día de los muertos of twenty years ago still looked fresh, waiting to be eaten whenever someone wished. The room was also filled with other things, with _las cartas_ , and _fotos_ , _la ropa,_ things the _familia_ had wished them to have and to see.

Héctor was sat in the middle of it all, cross legged as she remembered him being when he would write a song and be struggling over a lyric or a particularly note, but in his lap now was not paper and pencil but the collection of _fotos_ the _familia_ had left for them over the years. A whole life, nearly a century of it, that Héctor had never seen anything of because she had never kept any _foto_ that could be put on any _ofrenda._

He looked up when he heard the telltale sound of her footsteps. “When I was alive we had to pay for a _foto_ to be taken, and we had to pose; these are so candid, _mi amor_. You have all captured moments, actual _ **life,**_ not a pose!” He was so happy, looking at them, not remorse or sadness just…enjoyment. Pure and in the moment. Imelda found herself smiling as well, before walking over to sit on the floor at his side, her skirts splaying around her in a halo. The _foto_ he currently had in his hand was of Victoria and Elena in their best clothes for a party when Victoria had only been seven years old and already much taller than her _hermana._

Héctor set the _foto_ aside and looked at the next one and Imelda felt herself freeze. She remembered the year; 1969. She had only two birthdays left in the land of the living then, though she hadn’t known it…her heart issues had come upon her suddenly and without warning over a year later. Héctor squinted at the _foto,_ at the cake, and the woman beside it, a woman with her arms crossed, patient expression on her face at comment the one taking the _foto_ had said.

“My 70th,” She answered, clearing her throat self-consciously, She didn’t want him looking at it, selfish as it was, self-absorbed as it was, she didn’t. She didn’t want him to see the wrinkles on her hands, her neck, her face, how she had grown thinner, thin skin on old bones, eyes dropping, lips thinner…here in the Land of the Dead, you could gauge how young or old people were when they died if you knew what to look for, but generally, age was wiped away here. Child, teenager and adult were the only defining groups and any age within them was irrelevant. Aside from the white streaks in her hair that felt so much more apparent in the mirror of late as she focused upon them more, it was easy to forget that she and Héctor had died at such vastly different ages. He had died young while she had grown old, for here…they were just two people who were born in an old century and died decades ago.

But in the _foto_ it was a stark reminder of the difference. When Héctor recalled her as she was alive, he recalled a 22 year old, or when she was 20 or 19 or 18, young and pretty and lovely and smooth skinned and the same age as him. This _foto….quizás_ this was what he would start to imagine now. An old woman. An _abuela_ , just like the _abuelas_ they had seen in Santa Cecilia themselves when they were young and those days seemed a whole lifetime away for them.

“This is you,” Héctor realised quickly, bringing the foto closer to his face to get a better look.

“ _Sí_ ,” Imelda said abruptly, snatching out of his hands, “You don’t have to stare in such disbelief, Héctor”

“ _Lo siento, pero–_ "

“I got old Héctor. I was 72 when I died, Héctor. It’s _muy diferente_ from being 21. For one you can’t read things without finding a pair of glasses that you inevitably always _ **break** _ or _**lose** _ or…” And getting up quickly got much harder, and leaning over the desk as she made shoes began to make her back ache…getting old was not for the faint of heart.

Héctor deftly snatched the _foto_ back out of her hands, which while it proved he was definitely growing more comfortable and natural around her, she wished he had chosen another moment to be so bold. He continued to squint at it, bringing the _foto_ right up to where his nose should be.

“Is it that hard to believe that it’s me, Héctor?” She asked in tense exasperation.

“ _Sí_ ….” He admitted, still focused on the foto and Imelda felt herself flush with indignation.

"I got older Héctor," She told him firmly, "I continued to get older after...." _**After you left and after you were murdered**_ , she added silently, "And then...then I just got _**old**_ " But she never felt so in the Land of the Dead. Not until now.

The woman in the _foto_ was not the woman Héctor had known; **that** Imelda had been a young thing who danced and sang with her _novio_ and let her hair down past her shoulders as he kissed her temple. The woman in the _foto_ was a _madre_ who had raised a child alone, a woman who lived without music, an _abuela_...an old woman. She looked to Héctor and he still had the _foto_ in his hand, but he was no longer squinting so closely at it. Instead he was sat silently, eyes sad, as he continued to gaze at the _foto_ without really looking at it, his focus off.

"I know I'm _muy diferente_ from how you remember..."

Héctor still didn't say anything and Imelda felt the need to fill the silence, to stop which ever thought was running through his mind, crashing through his memories of her, his perceptions.

"It is _**not**_ the most flattering _foto,_ " She added, "Felipe took it and he always tried too _**hard**_ to be artistic and...." _**And I only had a few years left in me?**_ How was that supposed to stop Héctor seeing her as the old abuela she was?

"Most flattering?" He looked up now, expression still sad, but at least he wasn't just staring at the _foto_ anymore, and when he met her gaze and saw her worried expression, his own eyes widened with surprise. "You're serious?" He asked, his whole expression now scrunching up in confusion, and when Imelda only looked further horrified, he immediately scooted closer to her, so close that his shoes were stamping on her dress and his knee knocked against her own. " _Mi amor, mi amor_...." He held the _foto_ in front of her, "You are as _hermosa_ as the last day I saw you"

" _Hermosa_ like an old painting, _quizás_?" She challenged, refusing to be sated so easily. She was not a young girl who could be soothed by a quick half-hearted compliment.

"What?" Héctor looked confused again. "I mean it, Imelda, you were beautiful, you are beautiful....it's your natural state, _mi amor_ " He concluded with a shrug and an expression on his face that reminded her just how young he had been when he was killed.

"Well, your face said something else, Héctor. It said disappointment. _Yo comprendo_ " She did understand. 70 was very different from 22. Very different.

Caught out, Héctor sighed, shoulders sagging. "Because I am"

"See, I--"

"I'm disappointed I didn't get to do it with you"

"What?" Now it was Imelda's turn to be confused.

"I knew you got older, Imelda.... _dios_ I was here decades before you arrived. I counted those years. I have always known the age you died"

"Yes, but knowing and seeing are--"

"I wanted to grow old with you," Héctor continued, "I knew this was how you would look" He softly ran a finger over her form in the _foto,_ "Exactly like this. But when I imagined you in my head, I was stood beside you, not...." He trailed off a little, taking a deep breath that was more a heavy sigh than anything else. "You were always more responsible than me, Imelda, you were always the adult in our marriage....I just never thought I'd be the kid"

Imelda stared in disbelief. She had been concerned that Héctor would only see her as old now, but he feared she'd only see him as too young. She looked at the _foto_ , where _sí,_ she stood alone by the cake, there were other _fotos_ of that day, _fotos_ surrounded by her _familia_ , but in this one she stood alone and it served as a stark reminder that in another life, another world, Héctor would have been stood beside her, an old _abuelo_ by an old _abuela._

"You are **not** a child," Imelda told him firmly, "Sometimes you **act** like one, _sí._..." She reached for his hand, holding it tightly in hers, "I thought it would be **you** who thought **I** was..."

"What?" He asked, and as he looked at her she realised they were so close that she could pick out every tiny marking on his face. They were becoming so colourful of late, brighter everyday. She ran her hands over them lightly, tracing them briefly, before letting her hand drop.

"I thought you would think I was too old. An old, strict, _abuela_ " Subconsciously, her hand hovered near the white streaks in her hair and without warning, Héctor used his other hand to grab that one.

"I like this," He told her, "It shows me you got to live your life. I wouldn't care if it was all white. It does look a bit like the streak your tía Natalia had--" Imelda kicked him a little with her foot and he grinned winningly.

"Héctor--"

"When were you born?" He asked suddenly and Imelda frowned at him.

"Héctor you know that" She answered, but he looked at her silently, waiting for her to give him the year. She sighed patiently, "1899"

"And when was I born?"

Another sigh, "1900"

"Ah! So you are older than me! But only by a year so I think I can manage to overlook that"

He was making the point in his usual comic and inventive manner, but Imelda understood the heart of it regardless. They had both gotten older, only she had gotten older in the land of the living whereas he had been in the land of the dead.....

Quietly, she leaned against him, the closeness of how they were sat making it very easy to do so, and she felt his arm come around her, cuddling her close like they used to when they were alive. A pair of  _abuelos_ surrounded by old _fotos._


End file.
